Concomitant
by HartxStarr
Summary: A series of incoherent drabbles vague enough to warrant a collection instead of a standalone post. - Post-Apocalypse type AU (or, the years following)
1. thread

"You can't just _cut off_ my hair, that'll ruin my image."

The suffering look Ben gave him tried desperately to be anything but. It wasn't working all too well for him. "And why not?"

"I'm _Red-Haired_ Shanks, Ben, you can't just take away my trademark feature, that's rude."

The image of Ben _staring_ was too much to take, and someone in the back of the crowd that had gathered cheered their agreement on, invoking several more to do the same, leaving Ben surrounded by a chorus of "Yeah, what are you, _stupid_ Ben?" and "There's no other way, you're gonna have to do this by hand," and the situation found him pinching the bridge of his nose with a strangled sigh that only prompted more jeering.

Finally he managed a, "So what you're telling me," and the crew quieted down to scattered snickers and shit eating grins, "is that you'd rather me spend indeterminable hours prying you loose—" he paused for a strained look at Shanks' _uh-huh,_ "—than simply cutting off where you're caught?"

"That'll be like cutting off Whitebeard's beard," Shanks said with an honest face. "You can't just _do_ that."

"Whitebeard doesn't have a beard."

"Yeah, you know why? Because he got _caught in a tree,_ Ben, help me out here, please," and when all he got was another _look,_ he pulled a face of feigned dispair. "I'm _dying,_ Ben. You're letting me _die."_

The crew at Ben's back agreed in full, relentlessly pelting him in jests and witticisms until the man dragged a hand over his face. "Alright," he finally relented to a backdrop of hollared cheers. " _Alright."_

The story: Shanks was a wanderer of simple nature — and the night before had him indulging in a drink or two (or twenty) and, as all good drinks often do, led to a loud and merry affair. It lasted long into the night and into the early morning and after a quiet lull in their festivities, another party was thrown again just because they weren't ready to head off to bed just yet.

One by one, each member of his traveling crusaders eventually fell into a deep slumber, and stirred late into the afternoon with headaches and hangovers to nurse. However, they awoke to find Shanks missing, and after a fruitful search found him asleep in a patch of shrubs the forest provided, splayed out in a mess of heavy limbs and snoring breaths.

He arouse slowly, and let out a long yawn as he made to pull himself from the bed of leaves and twigs he made for himself but fell back down with a speed so sudden it had several heads turning to make sure he was okay.

He played it off with a little laugh, once more making to sit up but he fisted a hand in his hair halfway there and froze in that position until Yasopp piped up.

"You, uh, stuck there, Boss?"

Shanks carefully turned to look at him, small smile bemusing, and when it quirked a degree, several pairs of feet came to stand before him.

Sometime in their late night (early morning) antics, he had gotten himself tangled up in a small shrub — probably on his way to passing out, and Shanks couldn't manage more than a hunched over squat with his hair knotted into the branches.

After many failed advances at attempted disentangling, Ben finally put down his mug of coffee and sauntered over to survey the situation before suggesting to simply cut him loose.

To this, Shanks let out a rather dignified " _No,"_ and proceeded to blindly aid someone trying to free him from the confines of the small tree.

At that, Ben had turned back to his coffee with a "Suit yourself," casually thrown over his shoulder and didn't return until Shanks had continuously mewled out his name hours later, laying on his back after efforts had ceased to exist, only occasionally reaching back to more so play with the tangle than anything else.

It was with a sigh and several "Your kid's crying for you Ben, better go check on him" that got him staring down at his captain, watching the boyish smile slowly spread across his face — and Ben felt his own fond one form in return.

"Hey," Shanks greeted, making no indication of moving, "so, you wanna help me out here now, or not?" And he knew it'd take a little convincing to get Ben to even _think_ about budging, so he crossed his arms behind his head, wincing slightly when the motion tugged painfully at his hair.

Unfortunately, Ben started with, "Hair grows back." And at the pout that Shanks spouted — "You don't really care about the _hair,_ or the pocket watch you traded off for it—"

"Hey, it was hard parting with it—"

"You had it for a week."

"It was _vintage,"_ Shanks made a gesture with his hand as if to emphasize his point. " _Retro_ —"

"Please don't use that word."

"A relic of a forgotten era—"

"Which you put in Doflamingo's hands."

"Unfortunately, yes," he agreed, "But with good reason."

Ben quirked a brow and asked dryly, "Which is?"

"For my good looks."

Ben turned, "Good luck getting yourself unstuck, I'm busy packing up the mess you unraveled last night."

"Oh come on, Benny, just cut me loose— wait no, not actually _cut,_ but like— come back here, Ben please, I need you." And when Ben continued walking, Shanks made to follow but was made short by the knot in his hair literally planting him in place. "Ben, why do you hate me?"

He proceeded to ignore him, organizing his belongings and placing them back into his bag, going over the procedures of departing the camp the crew had made when they were ready, checking in on supplies and stock with his back turned. It was with that and a good natured " _Don't look now guys — the parents are fighting,"_ that, after several more banters shared (and one suffering attempt at prying him loose), saw Ben finally taking a knife to the knot in his captain's hair — and with an entire crew's worth of protest, none saw any real damage done, Shanks having had his fun and laughter scattered throughout camp.

Ben ran his fingers through the shortened red strands several times before giving it a yank.

" _Ow,"_ was the only complaint Shanks gave through another smile. "You could've just called me an idiot and moved on."

"You wouldn't have learned your lesson otherwise."

It was Shanks' turn to quirk a brow, and his grin stretched. "Which is?"

"You gave away an invaluable artifact of indeterminable worth for a dye job," and when Ben tugged at his hair again, it was to draw him closer this time, " _you_ come up with a way to pay off ferrying a crew's worth of wanderers to Fusha docks."

"Who says we're going to Fusha?"

"You just got your roots done, of course we're going to Fusha." There was a beat passed where all he did was look at his captain's boyish smile before — "You're insufferable," but it was softened by the curve of his lips, and Shanks returned it with a laugh.


	2. delta

They didn't look like her — their hair was too dark, nose a different shape, scrawnier than she ever was. Their eyes held a different hue — but the shine in them was the same, like they carried the whole sun within them, too bright eyes and smile just as big; laughter loud and inviting, and, Law realized, they were the same, not in body but in _spirit._ Playful and full of light, blank pages laid out before them to fill to their hearts content, become whatever and whoever they desired.

Though, in a village like this there wasn't much to do. Chop wood, like their mother. Become a farmer or a fisher, a sewist, perhaps, or harvest the apples on the hill. Be a doctor, like the other mother in their life.

Law's mouth quirked at that, and he turned to look at the child once more. He believed in the workings of fate, however he could not fathom its ways, as he went through unrelenting hell just to see the sight. They were running amok amidst wildflowers, laughter filling the air as they smiled at nothing at all, hopping from tree to tree like a hellion monkey and— yes, the resemblance there was too real for words, they were _just_ like his sister.

Fate was cruel like that, he knew; it took away everything he ever knew and left him with the mere image of her, as if that was enough. Kindness only extending to the form of the child before him — and he knew their souls were one in the same, but he didn't know how much intertwined they were, didn't know if the child really was his sister in a proceeding life, or if fate deemed him worthy of only a mirrored reflection of how he remembered her.

Because the last time he saw her, she was the same age as this one. Not several years younger than him but nearly two decades; seven years old and not a care in the world.

His sister had never wanted to enter the medical field and he doubted this one ever will either, too bent on playing to stop and truly think about their future, living in the moment. He could tell they were taking after their woodcutter mother already, daring and lively, alive and endowed — and she was that, too.

They were just as curious as his sister was though, and they stole any moment he had for himself away and littered them with questions — _Why do you have a sword? Can I touch it? Why does your hat look so weird? What's with the weird clothes? Mama says you're a doctor, but are you a_ cool _doctor, like she is?_

And it was _endearing,_ being so far out from any map, away from any city wall or the surrounding area beyond, because this one didn't know a thing about him. The Donquixote name meant nothing this far out into the trees, and it was with that knowledge that kept him stationed longer than he normally would. His uniform, to the village, was just another pair of disheveled clothing worn by another passing wanderer.

And _wanderer_ had never been so free of a word, a title he held in the back of his heart close to Rosinante's name, tucked within the folds of his memory of a time where it only meant a cherished journey of no destination; but wanderer now meant so much more, unbinding and releasing him from his chains, freeing him in all sense of the word. And he didn't mind then, that he was being miraculously chased, because out here on this side of this lost mountain, he really was free, and no hunter would think to search for him here.

And he could stay here forever, Law thought. Amongst the river and the wood, the endless landscape that invoked the image of his home country so, and the child who reminded him so much of his sister it hurt.

The weeks spent in that village found new callouses on his hands, new books to borrow, a time to rest his feet and roll up his sleeves all at once; and he wouldn't mind living as peacefully as that, so carefree he forgot what made him stumble out of the woods in the first place.

His carelessness is what scared him. He had let his guard down, risked the lives of everyone he came to know because he dared to think he wouldn't be followed so far from the endless forest he was so familiar with.

He left soon after, packed up his lone belonging and set off back into the trees, away from the sleepy village and any terror he could have brought upon it. And the child who saw him as their playmate cried louder with every step he took, confused and upset with his sudden departure with no explanation given.

And it was hard, taking up the term wanderer again when they cried like that — and his sister was upset too when he left her, wasn't she? Hopefully this one wouldn't end in tragedy — they'd grow to be whoever they saw fit, and he'd leave them to be just that, steering any potential danger away from their village, another part of him breaking at the thought of never seeing them again either.

What kind of a brother was he? How could he explain to them, to a village, to the little old crone who had taken him in that there was a king out there who'd rather him dead than happy, tied down with chains than free?


	3. sentiment

"Are you a witch?"

"No."

"Then how come your tangerines are the best tangerines ever?"

"This is my _mother's_ grove," Nami tried for modesty where it counted. "If anything, _she_ grows the best tangerines."

"Uh-uh," the wanderer shook his head. "She gave me one once — it didn't taste as good as the ones you give me."

 _You mean the ones you_ steal _when my back is turned._

Regardless, Nami felt a swelling start in her chest at that — pride, maybe; the stirring of something warm that only expanded the wider his smile got, swirling beneath her rib cage where she couldn't reach, growing and growing until she felt her cheeks darken and a smile of her own broke out across her face.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and snuck a look at him as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. He's been coming around more often lately, to Cocoyashi, sneaking into their orchard. Though, he hasn't been stealing nearly as many tangerines as when he first showed up, thieving by the armful, cheeks full of fruit.

Instead, he's been pilfering for her time, finding her when she's out working under the sun, striking up conversation; what has she been up to? What fun is there to do in this corner of the trees? What _he's_ been doing — what he's _seen,_ because with a wanderer, there's always a story to be told or a pictue to paint in the mind; and with Luffy, there's hundreds and thousands of different varieties, separate canvases to fill and sketch out.

And while Nami's tried for discreet, _he_ doesn't seem to mind asking for her to come out whenever he's around.

("Luffy's out waiting for you," Nojiko said casually, moments from the grove, after having placed a basket of freshly picked fruit on the table.

Nami sipped her coffee. "Who's Luffy?"

"Luffy," Nojiko repeated, pouring herself a cup. "The wanderer you've been talking to lately."

Bellemere put down her book and asked in a voice Nami didn't like at all, _"Oh,_ a wanderer?"

This was it. This was why she wanted to keep her secret chats a _secret._

"I don't know a Luffy," she feigned a thoughtful look, and honestly, it wasn't all that much a lie. She never asked for their name.

Though, when she searched her memory, she did recall them introducing themself, the name coming back to her now that she actually thought about it.

Bellemere must have caught the recognition in her eyes. "So, what's this wanderer like? Why have I never heard of them?"

"He's been showing up often lately," Nojiko sat down and blew into her mug. "Every few months or so, passing through the area — at least that's what the villagers say. This is the first time I've met him."

"Every few months? Where have I been?" Bellemere sat back in her chair.

"In the yard, you work too much," Nami supplied. "You need to relax every once in a while." Which, honestly, wasn't a lie, Bellemere worked harder than either of them.

Her poor attempt at a redirection didn't work at all. "He's waiting for you," Nojiko reminded, taking a tentative sip of her coffee. "Apparently, he has an adventure to tell."

"He always does," Nami mumbled under her breath, but found that there was no exasperation in it, and swifty headed out just as Bellemere suggested, too much eagerness in her voice, "You should invite him over sometime!")

"I'm not a witch," she started back to work, clipping stems and determining what was ready or not.

"Are you sure?" Luffy, cross legged in the dirt next to her, leaned in closer — whether it was to look at her or her work, Nami didn't know, but she waved him back anyway.

"I'm sure."

"It's okay if you are," he continued. "I met another witch once. But you're nothing like her."

"Yeah, I'll bet," images and stories of witch tales flooded through her mind. "If she's a witch, she has to be a disgusting old hag."

"She is!" Luffy agreed, and laughed at the thought of it — Luffy laughed with his whole body, Nami's never seen anything like it — but sat up suddenly and looked at her seriously. "Nami isn't old and ugly though. You're a good kind of witch." He tilted his head. "Well, the other witch is good too — she saves people. But Nami grows food for people, you're a—" he squinted, and for a moment Nami thought he was staring at her, but realized that he was trying to come up with the right term.

"A plant witch?" he tried. "Garden witch. Gr—een?" he dragged out the word, rolled it along his tongue, and Nami watched his mouth silently start to form other suggestions before he pursed his lips and declared — "You use magic, that's why _your_ tangerines taste so much better than anyone else's."

She bit back her comment on that and continued working, making her way further into the yard. Eventually, she turned to ask him, "How long are you planning on staying this— spit that out!"

Luffy had looked at her wide eyed before swallowing about five tangerines at once, peel and all, and disappeared into the thicket just as she made to throw her shears at him.


End file.
